“It wasn’t like that,” he finally said. “No one ordered the Ingalls investigation stopped, per se. The directive—and it was a departmental directive, straight from the top, the very top—was to effect damage control on Pierce Schwinn’s many years of felonious conduct. Because Schwinn was spinning out of control, heavily addicted to amphetamines, taking extreme risks. He was a ticking time bomb, and the department decided to defuse him. You just happened to get the wrong partner. It could’ve been worse for you. You were spared because you were a rookie and had never been observed participating in Schwinn’s transgressions. Except for one instance, when you were observed picking up a known prostitute in your on-duty car and chauffering her and Schwinn around. But I chose to overlook that, Detective. I had you transferred to greener pastures rather than drummed out in disgrace.”

“Is this the dramatic moment where I’m supposed to thank you?” Milo cupped a hand to his ear. “Where’s the goddamn drumroll?”

Broussard’s mouth curled downward in disgust. “Suit yourself and be dense.”

“I didn’t need your largesse, John. When I picked that hooker up I had no idea what was going to happen, figured her for an informant.”

Broussard smiled. “I believe you, Detective. I had a pretty good notion that you wouldn’t participate in any backseat calisthenics with a woman.”

Milo’s face grew hot.

Broussard said, “Don’t get all indignant on me. I won’t pretend to understand what you are, but it doesn’t bother me. Life’s too short for intolerance. I know what it’s like to be on the outside, and I’ve given up on the whole idea of changing the way people feel. Let bigots feel any way they want to, as long as they don’t misbehave.”

“You’re a paragon of tolerance.”

“Not tolerance, constructive apathy. I don’t care about your amusements—don’t care about you, period, as long as you do your job.”

“When doing the job suits your interests,” said Milo.

Broussard didn’t reply.

“You’re an outsider, huh?” said Milo. “For an outsider, you scampered up the ladder pretty quickly.”

“Hard work and persistence,” said Broussard, sounding as if he’d recited it a million times before. “And good luck. Plus a good deal of yassuh-mastah posterior-kissing.” He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Aiming for casual, just one of the guys. His bearing said otherwise. “Back when I worked patrol, I used to tape pictures in my locker. Photographs of men I admired. Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche. One day I opened my locker and the pictures were ripped to shreds and the walls were decorated with ‘Die, Nigger!’ and other genial messages. I pasted every one of those photos together, and if you go into my office today, you’ll see them hanging behind my desk.”